If I had a blog, today I would write about my journey towards faith.
Faith is not an easy get. People who as been part of any religion or spiritual path has been confronted by this five-letter word and it seems like a simple one, but throughout the ages, no one has offered a concise definition of the word. Our family is one part Episcopalian and one part Baptist, so growing up, I got a full range of Christian doctrine, all of which admonished me to have faith in God. As I matured, I wanted more that the Sunday-school version of Abraham and Issac to guide me. I wanted to know how I could have the kind of faith that would relieve my constant struggle with fear and give me confidence in the face of life’s uncertainty. I couldn’t find these answers in The Bible, so I widened my search to to include other religions and spiritual paths.
I found many uplifting, soul-healing perspectives in the spirituality of Buddhists, Native Americans, Druids, and Pantheists. I drank deeply from the nature-wisdom of Thoreau, Emerson, John Burroughs and Sigurd Olson and had powerful experiences in the wilderness, but I still couldn’t find the key to unlock the concept of faith. I prayed, meditated, journaled, and went on vision quests; joined churches, left churches, and very nearly entered seminary, but with middle-age fast-approaching, my quest seemed to be in vain. Maybe I just wasn’t supposed to crack the code of this mysterious concept. Maybe I was not to be a “person of faith.”
As often happens, I started to find a trail of breadcrumbs soon after my frantic searching ended. Once I decided to accept my “failure,” things began to happen. In July, I was running the farm for two weeks while Mom and Dad were on a horseback-riding trip out west. My first week alone was fantastic. I had energy, creativity, and tons of motivation. I cleaned and organized the storage room in our house, cleaned six months of bedding out of the chicken house and cleaned it stem to stern, and did a deep cleaning of the horse barn. I was on fire. In the midst of my power-surge, synchronicities abounded. The Universe was speaking directly to me, leaving me no doubt that whether you call it God, Yahweh, Allah, The Goddess, Nature, or The Great Spirit, there is a divine being out there somewhere and it knows us as individuals. I was on a spiritual high. Then I came the crash…
Over that first weekend, the Ego, the inner voice that gives rise to my doubts and fears, got the better of me. I can’t say exactly what triggered my fall, but by Saturday evening I had fallen back into my old, fear-laden mind-set and my body responded in kind. It was utter gastric rebellion for thirty-six hours. As soon as I was well enough to contemplate, I tried to uncover the source of my illness. I compared my thoughts and moods over the last week to those of the weekend. Somewhere along the way I lost something, something essential. Late Sunday evening the answer came: I had lost faith. I’d had seven days of trusting The Universe, conversing through signs and dreams in a way that told me, “Whatever happens, you will have the resources you need to meet the situation at hand,” and then I let the Ego take it away. If I could have gotten off the couch, I would have leaped up and shouted, “Eureka!” Not only did I start feeling better, but at last I had a clue to the meaning of faith. I had finally struck gold.
I don’t want to be a zealot who proclaims they’ve been given the secrets of the universe, but I think I have a small piece of the cosmic puzzle: To be a person of faith, you must believe that there is a divine being that knows you as an individual and wants to communicate with you and it is saying, “I’ve got your back.” It doesn’t mean nothing bad will ever happen, or that you’ll get everything you want, but it is an assurance that when the hard times come, you’ll be given what you need, not only to survive, but to find peace, comfort, and joy in the days that follow.
The synchronicity that finally pulled this together for me was a gospel song that kept coming up on my Pandora radio station. For three days, every time I was in the car, I heard the song Where No One Stands Alone. I was familiar with the song, but had never really listened to the words. When I did, I knew I was on the right path at last.
Once I stood in the night with my head bowed low
In the darkness, as black as could be
And my heart felt alone
And I cried oh Lord
Don’t hide your face from me
Hold my hand all the way
Every hour every day
From here to the grave
Take my hand
Let me stand
Where no one stands alone.